


L'autre homme

by CMBYNObsessed



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-19 12:23:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22444276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CMBYNObsessed/pseuds/CMBYNObsessed
Summary: I tried for two years to recover from my summer with Oliver. It was finally working, until I ran into him on a nondescript spring morning in Manhattan in 1985.
Relationships: Oliver (Call Me By Your Name)/Original Female Characters, Oliver/Elio Perlman
Comments: 59
Kudos: 212





	L'autre homme

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hollybush](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hollybush/gifts).



> So, I was reading some older CMBYN fics, when I came across Entre les Murs by Hollybush. It was written from Oliver's perspective and it was beautiful and intriguing. I immediately began to wonder about Elio's experience during this story, so I was inspired to write this fic, the same story from Elio's perspective. You don't HAVE to read Entre les Murs to understand my story, but I would recommend it. Hollybush is a magnificent writer and the story is haunting.
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/13667634/chapters/31395111
> 
> Thank you to my amazing Beta, @hendrickplease, for always being there for me! And to my readers, for giving me the confidence to try something like this xoxox

L'autre homme

i. 

It always helped when I kept myself busy and distracted. The autumn after Oliver left, I ached for him. But I also had homework and college applications and rehearsals. I flirted with girls and kissed a few boys. I played my piano and guitar and composed and transcribed at an almost feverish pace. I threw myself into everything I did to help me forget.

And, eventually, it hurt less.

It grew colder in Milan, and our summer in Crema began to fall away. Even so, if I turned on the radio and heard a certain song, or if I caught a whiff of apricots out of season, or anything else that reminded me at all of Oliver or our summer together, it felt like an unexpected attack. I would have to stop whatever I had been doing and take a moment to recover. It would anger me, this sudden emotion interfering in my life. In my head I would furiously blame Oliver, even though there was no logical reason in doing so. To me, he was the source of any and all of my misery. I was relieved when these instances seemed to happen less and less as winter approached.

Then it was Hanukah and my family, as always, returned to Crema for the holidays. Despite the cold weather and snow on the ground, I could feel Oliver’s presence throughout the villa: on the sofa next to the piano, in Mafalda’s kitchen, alongside the books in my father’s study, and most of all, strewn across my two twin beds still pushed together.

The pain that I had been semi-successful at pushing down into a dark place somewhere deep inside of me had started to bubble to the surface. I was resentful at the assault of memories that threatened to unravel every bit of progress I had made at recovering from Oliver while I had been in Milan.

And then he called, and what was left of the crusty scab that had been gradually healing over my injured heart was unceremoniously ripped off completely. The wound was now almost as fresh as it had been the day I watched Oliver’s train pull away in Clusone, leaving me broken and brittle. The wall that I had so carefully constructed to protect my heart was revealed to be made of straw.

It was in that sad, hazy time after the call that I had to admit to myself the truth that I had been denying for the last 6 months: despite his impending nuptials, Oliver was everything to me, and I would do almost anything to one day be with him again. I realized that I would probably tolerate almost any level of shame, discomfort or sorrow to be able to have him back in my life, even for one night.

Little did I know that tolerance level would be tested relentlessly over the next few years.

ii.

Spring came, and I redoubled my efforts at recovering from Oliver. His phone call left no room for interpretation--he was getting married and any hope I had for us had disappeared by the time I had hung up. I was utterly heartbroken, but he had given me no choice but to move on. However, I still knew in my heart that if he ever opened the door for me, even a crack, I would find a way to slip back into his life.

Then, on one overcast day in late April, an envelope arrived at our apartment in Milan bearing news that would change the course of my life: I had been accepted into Julliard, in New York, the same city where Oliver taught. I had also been accepted into several other music programs in Rome, Paris, and San Francisco, but I didn’t even consider these other schools, these other cities. Only one would bring me closer to Oliver and I couldn’t even pretend to contemplate other options.

Surprisingly, once I started at Julliard, it became easier to _not_ think about Oliver, despite his close proximity. I was overwhelmed by new people, new experiences, and new responsibilities. School and my music had always come so easily to me, and over the years I had grown complacent, even arrogant, about my talents. But Julliard tested my abilities in new ways, and for the first time in my life, I had to be disciplined and focused. Thoughts of Oliver were pushed to the back of my mind as I struggled to make a place for myself in this new world.

I liked the students in my program and classes, which was a relief as I was often overly-critical of the people around me. I was even fond of my housemates, although they complained often and loudly about my lack of cleanliness. But we all got on well, and on the weekends we would go out and cut loose after an intense week of studying and practicing, practicing, practicing. We knew we would have to get up Monday morning and start all over again.

It was on one of these tedious Monday mornings in the late spring of my freshman year that it all started again. I had just stopped at my favorite music shop to pick up some sheet music when I heard my name. I knew without turning around that it was him. I had carried his voice around with me everywhere I went for almost two years, and hearing him then, my name seemed to be coming from inside my own heart.

I zipped up my backpack then turned slowly, bracing myself to see him.

He was already walking towards me, more filled out than I remembered. His hair was darker, his skin paler, but he was still shockingly handsome. He came within a foot of me, then pulled off his sunglasses. And I will never forget the look on his face—shock, yes--but more than that, elation at the sight of me. If I were more honest about my own feelings, I might have recognized the look for what it really was: love.

He took a step towards me so we were close enough to touch and said something so low that I almost missed it, something that cut me to the bone.

“Oliver.”

My heart raced at his presence, at the sound of his own name coming from his beautiful mouth. I was confused at the way he was looking at me, as if I were a missing puzzle piece for which he had been searching tirelessly for years.

And then I responded the only way I could. “Elio…”

We didn’t swoon, or fall into each other arms with a passionate kiss. Instead, Oliver reached out a hand and touched my shoulder.

“It’s so good to see you,” he said with so much tenderness in his voice, it made me want to drop to my knees, wrap myself around his legs, and beg him to never go.

Instead, we got coffee, then coffee turned into lunch. I had class that afternoon, but I couldn’t bear to leave, so I stayed with him instead. We talked about everything under the sun—my family, his work, my classes, his latest book. I made him laugh several times, and it was as heady a feeling as I remembered. He never mentioned his wife, and I never asked.

We took a walk through Central Park after lunch, and at some point, he took my hand. It was large and warm, and I held it tight. As we strolled, he quizzed me about my latest composition and what I thought of Salman Rushdie’s newest novel. The rush of our intellectual camaraderie came back to me all at once, turning me on even more than his touch.

We stopped at the apex of a bridge and he turned to me.

“I’m not sure what brought me to you today, Elio, but I am so appreciative of whatever divine force it was. I’ve missed you.”

He traced my jaw with one hand, gazed at me with something like wonder in his eyes, and whispered, “Still so beautiful.”

I opened my mouth to say that I had missed him as well, but before I had the chance, his lips were on mine and I had lost the capacity for words. The rest of the world fell away as we kissed, and we forgot our surroundings, our obligations, our entire lives. I felt my body responding almost immediately to Oliver as it always had and I began to pull away before it became embarrassing. He clasped onto me and murmured into my mouth, “I need to be with you, Elio. Can we find a place where we can be alone?”

And that is how it started again.

iii.

That first night, the entire affair was exciting enough that I was able to ignore the tackiness of the room (shaggy and green), and the seediness of our situation. I told myself it was a one-time thing, although I was unsure if I meant the hotel room or the sex. Either way, I was wrong on both counts.

The sex was amazing, even better than in Italy. The clandestine nature of the night made everything seem urgent and exhilarating. I was more experienced, so there was none of the fumbling, tickling, and faux-wrestling that characterized our love-making back then. It was intense and less playful. Oliver pushed into me with desperation, then took me apart, thrusting aggressively, as if he were exacting revenge. It thrilled me, and left me bruised. Our orgasms that night threatened to knock us both unconscious.

When it was over, we lay in the hotel bed, covered by a cheap commercial comforter that scratched our sweaty skin. Oliver breathlessly told me again how thankful he was to have found me. I didn’t ask that night, or on many of the nights that followed, if he was planning on leaving his wife for me. To be honest, I assumed that it was inevitable. How can you profess your love for one person, but then stay in a marriage to another? I was naïve, because of course it happens all the time.

I can’t speak for Oliver, but I didn’t plan for it to become a monthly affair, meeting up in hotels. But between my school and his work and family, we could only find the time every few weeks. And the rented rooms? I had vowed to wait to introduce Oliver to my friends when we were a proper couple. And then, eventually, the situation became a bit shameful, and I was embarrassed that I continued to accept it. So meeting in shady hotel rooms began to seem more and more appropriate.

It was always for only one night. There were times when I was so lonely for him that I thought it would actually kill me, and I would beg Oliver for more. I would hide a shoe or his keys, pretending to be playing, but actually desperate for just a few more hours with him. But one night at a time was all he had to give.

Why did I keep meeting him? Why did I do that to myself? The answer was so simple and admittedly pathetic: I couldn’t stay away and I couldn’t say no. If Oliver had crumbs to offer, then I would live on crumbs. I survived by telling myself dual lies: first, that I didn’t mind only getting these scraps from Oliver every month; that they were sufficient for my heart. And the second lie was that eventually Oliver would leave her for me, even if he never said so himself. These lies sustained me, but never nourished me. But they kept me going back.

And, to be completely honest, I never did let myself subsist only on Oliver’s crumbs. I had many men and a few women on the side over the years. Mostly just one-night-stands, but I even had a few relationships, always keeping Oliver a secret. But eventually, my significant other would sense that something was _off_ , and more was always asked of me. More time, more attention, to be more present in the relationship. It was usually around then that I would break it off. I had nothing more to give; everything else went to Oliver. There were always three people in these relationships, and my significant other was the unknowing third wheel.

Every few months, I _would_ ask Oliver if he was thinking of divorcing his wife. I had to give him credit: he never lied to me. The answer was always, “I am so sorry, baby. You know I can’t do that.” And then one son came, and then the other, and with each new baby my hope diminished.

And yet I never lost faith completely that someday he would leave her for me. So, I continued to meet him, to stay with him. He broke my heart again and again, yet I stayed.

iv.

And so it went for years. We developed a pattern, taking turns choosing and paying for the hotel, trying to not ever stay at the same one more than twice, which became increasingly difficult as the years flew by. We made sure that we were never too close to either of our homes or schools. As we got older, the hotels grew nicer. Plush lobbies, glass-enclosed elevators, down comforters on the beds. I often wondered how Oliver explained away the hotel charges when it was his month to pay, but I never asked. It was none of my business.

In the beginning, our hunger for the other dominated us, and we would crash into each as soon as the hotel door closed, tearing off the clothes that separated us until we were skin-on-skin. I would yank down his trousers and take him hungrily into my mouth trying to make up for lost time. Or he would push me onto the bed and spread my legs, eager to taste me and lick me open. Our lovemaking never lasted long in those heady early days, and then we would lounge for hours naked on the bed, catching up, kissing, or dozing.

After a few years had gone by, I was no longer a student and we were more equals. By then, we tended to talk first. We missed more than just each other’s bodies; we missed each other’s company. He would want to know how my new job was going, and I would ask about his new teaching assistant who was making his life more difficult with his incompetence. Our kisses would linger and our hands would wander as we talked, and eventually we would get around to our carnal interests. This was when the sex was best; it would be sensual, unhurried, and always satisfying.

I turned 25, and thoughts of the rest of my life began to concern me with greater frequency. I wanted a partner, someone to share a bed with every night. Someone to come home to and talk about my day with over a glass of wine. I needed companionship and stability. And I wanted that with Oliver, but if he couldn’t offer that, then I began to think that perhaps it was time for me to move on. The idea threatened to destroy me, but did I want to be thirty-year-old man still meeting my illicit lover in hotel rooms? That was no life.

These thoughts kept me up at night, and distracted me at work and during my daily errands. I had no one to discuss my problem with—most of my friends knew nothing of Oliver. Marzia was the only one I had confided in, years ago on a trip home to Italy. She had begged me to break it off with him, insisting that I deserved better. I never brought him up to her again. My parents knew we were in contact, but had no idea of the true nature of our relationship. They would not have approved.

After many sleepless nights of deliberation, I finally made the heart-wrenching decision to break things off. It was time. I prayed to a god that I didn’t believe in for the strength to go through with it, and to not become weak at the sight of his beautiful face and his inevitable protestations. I already knew that Oliver had no intention of ever letting me go, and that he lived in fear that one day I would walk away. Yet, he never made a move to make me stay.

We made plans to meet that Friday night. I picked my favorite hotel, even though we had been there recently. I wanted to be as comfortable as possible to make it through what I needed to do. My stomach was in knots as I walked hurriedly to the hotel after work, the crowds of the city a faceless blur. I felt like a man walking to meet his executioner, but I remained determined.

I got to the room early, and decided to wash off the day’s grime. A shower would help me think and prepare for what was coming next. I hoped that Oliver would not be late, giving me more time to lose my nerve.

As I was drying off, I heard movement coming from the bedroom. I opened the door, still in my towel, to see Oliver standing in the middle of the room.

“Hey.” My voice was almost a whisper, my body a Pandora’s Box of unexpressed emotions.

He seemed uncharacteristically nervous, his fists clenched and his face unsure. He was even more startling beautiful than usual. My heart throbbed; why did he have to look so good on this night, of all nights? He gave me a tentative smile that I couldn’t return. I suddenly noticed something unusual- a large duffle bag placed casually on the bed. My heart pounded… Oliver had never brought luggage to one of our rendezvous.

It took everything in me to get the courage to ask, “Staying the night?” I shocked myself at how steady my voice was, because inside I was shaking.

He paused and swallowed. I could feel his nervous energy from across the room. The hope that was starting to bloom in my belly terrified me. I waited for his next words.

“Just staying.”

_Just staying_.

I tried desperately not to read too much into these words. I faked nonchalance and shrugged.

He continued on. “I thought I would…stay, this time. If you still want me to, that is. If you still want me to stay.”

Before his words could even fully reach my brain, I felt my legs give out from under me. The relief I felt at knowing that I would not have to give him up… give _us_ up was so immediate and visceral, my entire body responded by shutting down. I felt myself falling, my brain went black, and then Oliver’s arms were around me.

I heard his soft voice, filled with love and concern. “Oliver.”

I grasped on to him, worried that it was all a dream and I was about to wake up to find him gone, back to his wife and his other life. If I held him tight enough, perhaps it would be real.

His voice again. “Oliver, Oliver, Oliver.”

I finally opened my eyes, and he was there, his brows knitted with worry. I took a breath, working to keep calm. I released my death grip on his shirt, then pulled away so I could see him in full. I heard myself say the only word that mattered in that moment.

“Elio.”

v.

Years later, when we would be tending our garden, side by side as we always were, or in the grocery store, arguing about which fruits to buy organic, or even when he was deep inside me late at night, throbbing with need, I would sometimes think about how close I had been to turning my back on him and walking away. I know now that I would never have recovered. Even though we only shared one night a month for not quite five years, in that time we exchanged our hearts and came to know each other in ways that no one else ever did. He saw me completely—my flaws and my quirks; my strengths and my desires--and they only made him love me more. Because he knew as I knew: he is me and I am him, and without the other, we would have lived a half-life. The thought would make my blood run cold, what we would have missed, each of us existing as if in a coma without the other.

Now… Oliver can always tell when I am beginning to ruminate on the “what-ifs.” He will drop whatever he is doing—his book, or his knife, or his laptop—and come to me. He will take me in his arms, pull me so tightly to him that my breath will catch, and he will whisper in my ear, “I am here and I am never going to leave.”

And he never has.


End file.
